Self-Inflicted
by SophieRomanoff
Summary: TW for self-harm When Clint wakes Natasha from a nightmare, she attacks him. When he leaves the room, stricken, Natasha retreats to the bathroom and cuts herself. It's then up to Natasha whether she hides or she lets Clint see and help. An early day 9 of prompt challenge.


Hey I got the writing itch so two updates in a day it is. Hope you don't mind! Trigger warnings for Red Room stuff, self-harm, flashbacks and nightmares, plus general violence.

Translations: may be wrong

net ... net ostanovki, ya etogo ne sdelayu – no, no I won't do it

moya Zvezda – my star

Moy solnechnyy svet – my sunlight

SELF-INFLICTED

A whimper pulled Clint from his sleep, something about a beach and hot dogs on the beach.

He sat up, looking over at Natasha.

The redhead was writhing under the covers, whimpering and talking in broken Russian.

" net ... net ostanovki, ya etogo ne sdelayu!" She shuddered, her hands hitting out at something only she could see. She tossed and turned, a louder whimper escaping her lips.

Clint climbed out of the bed, calmly pulling the covers off her and taking a few steps back.

From a safe distance, he shouted out Natasha's name.

"Natasha, Tash wake up!"

When she continued thrashing, he picked up a fallen pillow. Holding his breath, he threw it at her. The contact pulled her from the worst of the nightmare and she sat bolt upright.

"Tasha?" He asked softly, wincing and pressing his back against the wall as she came at him. The knife she always hid beneath her pillow was dancing in her fingertips.

"Natasha, it's Clint, it's me! I'm not going to hurt you. Nat, please. You're safe!"

He wouldn't hurt her.

She stepped towards him, with the grace of a ballet dancer and the danger of a predator. She pushed him closer to the wall, her arm across his throat. The knife glinted in the moonlight as she held it under his jaw.

Her breathing was harsh and ragged, her voice cold and emotionless when she spoke.

"Whoever you are, I'd think twice about touching me." She hissed, the knife nicking the side of his jaw.

He stayed still, his hands held up.

"It's me, Natasha, it's Clint. You're okay-" he said quietly.

Natasha shook her head, blinking rapidly. She took a few steps backwards, the knife clattering to the floor.

She followed soon after, slumping on all fours, gasping for breath.

Clint peeled himself from the wall and knelt in front of her, still at least two feet away from her.

"Natasha?" He asked quietly, even as he grabbed the knife and threw it across the room. It landed tip first in the plaster, just missing the shelves they'd put up together.

"Clint-" Natasha whispered, her voice husky and pained.

"I'm here, it's okay, you're here. It's safe." He murmured gently.

"I could have killed you-" She whispered, shaking her head.

"You didn't. You stopped yourself. We're okay. I promise." He said softly. "Natasha can I touch you?"

The redhead nodded slowly and he immediately crawled towards her. He touched her shoulder and gently pushed her so she was sitting. His fingers brushed her cheek and pushed back the hair stuck to her forehead. "You're okay." He said again. "What can I do?" He asked, softer still.

"I..." Natasha frowned, tilting her head up. "Juice?'' She asked softly, a slight tremble to her voice.

He would never deny her anything. "Of course. Any preference?"

"Strawberry." She said quietly, seeming more herself.

Clint nodded. "Of course, moya zvezda. Anything. I'll be right back, try to relax." He pressed a soft kiss to her forehead and stood.

When he had left the room, Natasha stood on shaky limbs. She headed to the wall and silently pulled the knife out from the plaster.

Taking the hilt in her grip, she padded over to the bathroom. She closed the door, locked it and turned on the harsh over head lights.

She clambered into the shower and turned on the hot water. After a few seconds of letting the water wake her, she looked down at the knife. She was wearing a tank top, so her arms were bare.

Natasha pressed the blade against her skin and drew it across. Blood immediately welled up and began to drip down, mixing with the water and swirling down the drain.

She pulled the blade over her skin another two times, watching as the blood sprung up and dripped down her skin.

It had been years since she'd last taken a blade to herself, and she...felt different. She didn't feel...anything. Just the stinging of the cuts and a sense of guilt and hatred deep in her stomach.

She dropped the knife, frowning in confusion. A long time ago, it had made her feel better. One of the mantras in The Red Room had been 'pain in clarity'.

It would be said just before a beating and again after.

Natasha stared down at knife, her face twisting. Tears welled up but didn't drop as she growled and pulled her knees to her chest.

She had made a mistake. She'd broken her streak of being clean and for what? All she felt was guilt and anger at herself.

That was when she heard the door. She had a split second decision to cover herself with a jacket and leave the bathroom or stay there and let Clint find her.

She chose the latter, silently looking towards the door.

"Natasha? I got your juice. And a snack, I figured you might be hungry." The sound of things being set down.

"Tasha?" Came the voice again, a hint of fear in his voice now.

A knocking on the door came the next second. "Natasha? Open the door. Don't make me kick it down."

But Natasha couldn't move, her limbs frozen.

"Clint-" She choked out and with that, she heard the sounds of the lock on the door being hit with something heavy.

Seconds later, there Clint was.

He froze for a second, his sharp eyes taking in everything.

"Oh, moy solnechnyy svet." Clint breathed, stepping towards her. He grabbed one of the towels and asked softly for her to give him her arm.

She did so, her gaze on the floor and anywhere but at him.

"Natasha, are you with me?" He asked, wrapping the towel around her arm and holding it in place.

The redhead nodded and bit on her lip. "I...I stopped." She said quietly. "I started and I...I didn't like it. It didn't...help me. It only made me feel worse."

"Tasha..." he murmured, gently lifting her chin with his free hand. "It's alright." He wasn't going to belittle her and tell her he understood.

"Relapse happens, Natasha, okay?" He murmured, thumb brushing over her cheek.

"But I'm...supposed to be strong." She shook her head.

"You are, moya zvezda. You're the strongest person I know. And the bravest. You could have hidden this from me. Or you could have continued. You stopped. You let me see you. You're letting me help. That is strong, Natasha. That is oh so brave."

Natasha sniffled delicately, slowly meeting his gaze. "It is?"

"Yes." Clint said firmly. "I wouldn't lie to you." He said quietly. "We can figure this out. We...or you, can talk to Phil. We can get you back in with the therapist."

"They'll take me off missions. I'm unstable." She mumbled.

"It was a mistake, Natasha. As long as you're attending therapy and being honest, as long as you feel you're okay to continue missions, you will. Maybe...a small break. Whilst you adjust." He suggested quietly, not wanting her to be blindsided by a break from missions.

She just nodded tiredly, rubbing her face.

"Come on, we're both wet. I'll get us some clothes and you can have your drink and if you don't want to sleep, we can watch TV or play a game. Yeah?" He asked softly.

With another nod, Natasha began to pull herself up. After turning the shower off and wrapping a towel around her, he guided her to the edge of the bed.

Ten minutes later, they were both in clean, dry clothes. He put on sweatpants and a shirt, since it didn't look likely they'd be sleeping. She had a pair of pyjama shorts and one of his shirts on. As she nuzzled into the material of his old tee, Clint cranked up the heating. He knew how she hated to be cold, it reminded her too much of dark nights chained to her bed, a thin blanket only just coming up to her waist.

Once that was sorted, Clint handed her the juice and snack, apple slices (her favourite), and peeled off the bloodied towel.

"A few quick stitches and it'll be as good as new, alright moya zvezda?"

Another nod.

Clint busied himself with her arm, humming sympathetically. "I'm sorry." He murmured, tying the stiches off and placing a clean bandage over them.

He pressed a kiss there and gently took her hand.

"You don't have to talk, Natasha, not right now." He said softly, leaning back on the bed and smiling as she curled up against his chest. Rubbing her back and pulling the blanket up to her chin, he kissed her temple.

"You're okay, Tash. We're okay." He sighed softly, closing his eyes.

"Movie?" Came her soft voice and Clint nodded.

"Absolutely, moy solnechnyy svet. Anything you want."


End file.
